


Really Hard In Hightown

by rhostheirin



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhostheirin/pseuds/rhostheirin
Summary: Marian Hawke is an unorthodox Private Detective. Fenris is a man on the run struggling to make ends meet. Neither has had much luck in life but when Fenris gets a job working for Varric Tethras, both of them are forced to learn some hard truths about themselves.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Carver Hawke/Merrill, Fenris/Female Hawke, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Really Hard In Hightown

The elegant yet extravagant man paces across the sticky floor, coated in a thick layer of last night’s ale, followed by an expression of disgust with every smooth step he takes. He runs his finger along the bar, a layer of dirt and dust being pulled up as he does so, causing him to sneeze loudly. He cleans his hands and perfectly preened black moustache with his silk handkerchief and elects to stand for the meeting, afraid of what he may be sitting on should he take one of these stools. 

Varric finally emerges from his office, cursing to himself as he sees the Tevinter. He really needs to clean the place but it’s easy to forget how messy it can get when it’s packed with rowdy people so only in the day can you truly see the festering grime. He’ll ask Daisy to do a deep clean one of these days. “Right Pavus, let’s get this over with,” he says grumpily, being seated on a stool so that he is the same height as the other man. 

“This truly is a filthy establishment, Varric,” Dorian says, dramatically placing his silver scarf around his lower face to protect his delicate nostrils from the pungent stench of piss. He is dressed in a fine black suit with velvet embroidery, his hair is gelled in place, and Varric can detect a faint pleasant whiff of his expensive aftershave over the smell of stale vomit.

“Yeah, well...I like it that way. And so do my customers,” the dwarf shrugs, begrudging to change what he is so used to. Bartrand had always been a critic too. But Bartrand wasn’t here anymore.

“Do they? Because I’ve had a look at your accounts and it’s really not-”

“Cut to the chase, Sparkler,” Varric interrupts, his patience wearing thin. “What do you want?” 

“I wish to buy this place from you,” Dorian says, not a glimmer of insincerity in his eye. In fact, his expression is entirely unreadable which is odd as Varric can normally read people like a book. 

Varric then lets out an unruly laugh in response. “You? Want to buy The Hanged Man? Why?”

“It has so much potential!” Dorian responds, excitedly, and Varric cannot help but wonder if the man had smoked a huge quantity of elfroot before entering the building. “Think of it less as a backstreet dive and more of a...bistro. Or a gastro-pub. I’m thinking black and white marble with silver and gold drapings. Or maybe purple. In fact, I have a pinterest board-”

“You’ve got to be shitting me. Are you mad? You want to open a fancy...whatever you just said, in Lowtown?”

“Why not? This area could do with being dragged kicking and screaming out of the Exalted Age.”

“Sparkler, people in Lowtown are simple. They like cheap watered-down ale. I provide them with cheap watered-down ale. It’s a win-win relationship. There’s nothing you can do to convince me that that’s ever gonna change.”

“I’ll give you double what this place is worth,” he says, and again Varric has to check his ears. 

“And why would you do that?” 

“Think on it, my short friend,” Dorian says with a smug smile as he reaches inside his jacket pocket. “Here’s my card for  _ when _ you change your mind.” He turns around to leave, so arrogantly and infuriatingly sure of himself, and even with his back turned to him Varric knows that he is wearing that shit-eating grin. 

“You mean  _ if _ ,” Varric says back but Dorian is already gone. 

As the Tevinter leaves, Hawke takes his place and enters the bar with a swagger. “Who was that?” she asks, immediately going behind the bar and pouring herself a drink of whiskey. He’s beyond trying to stop her now and at this point, he’s too afraid to ask. “And he does know he’s going to get mugged the second he leaves dressed like that, right?” 

He chuckles wryly. “Some rich bastard trying to buy this place.”

“Why would he want this shithole?” says Hawke, matter-of-fact, but he cannot argue. She mutters a ‘no offence’ with a sheepish smile but she is right. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Wants to turn it into a gastropub.”

She removes her crimson leather jacket and takes the stool beside Varric. “A what now?”

“Exactly.”

“I assume you told him that he can shove his ‘gastropub’ up his waxed arsehole?” Varric is silent momentarily, still processing the obscene offer in his mind. “Varric?” asks Hawke, accusatory, when he does not immediately answer her question. 

“He said he’ll give me double the asking price.”

She laughs at first, her initial response matching his, but her laughter soon dies down as she notes his sincerity. “And you’re...suspicious?”

“Well yeah, why would you want this location? He’s hardly going to get sophisticated clientele, they couldn’t even cope when Daisy tried to put up some floral arrangements. It’s weird. I don’t like it.”

“Want me to do a background search on him for you?”

“I didn’t wanna ask but-”

“I could tell it was heading that way.” She downs the whiskey in one go and quickly pours herself another. She’s hardly teetotal but even for her, it’s not this common to be knocking them back at...ten-thirty in the morning.

“You alright, Hawke? You seem a little low.”

“Who? Me? I’m fine. Always fine,” she replies, a little too quickly. She never was the best liar, despite lying roughly six times a day. Perhaps he just knew her too well after all these years. 

“You might fool Daisy with that act but I’m unconvinced. Still no word from Blondie?”

“Nope. Nothing. I’m starting to think that I should just give up and become a miserable, old, spinster. I’ll spend my evenings crocheting little owls and my days caring for my twenty cats. And I’ll purchase a slow cooker so that I can make stew in the morning and it’ll be ready for the evening. I’ll walk around Lowtown handing out bonbons to kids and telling them to remember their ‘sweet old aunt Marian’ just to feel some human interaction.” Melodrama certainly was a Hawke trait but Marian was still most definitely the worst for it. 

“Andraste’s tits, I almost fell asleep just listening to you. Bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But nothing ever works out for me,” she complains, barely just out of her depression after Anders had abruptly left her, hellbent on starting a revolution. Blondie had left a simple note, reading ‘sorry’ before he jetted off to Maker knows where leaving Marian alone and in the possession of a hundred tonnes of ice cream and whiskey. He was extremely low on stock during those times. 

He chuckles again as he gives in, and pours himself a drink too. “Probably because you’re attracted to crazy.”

“Not true,” she replies, sitting up defensively. Then she thinks about it and slumps back down instantaneously. “Okay maybe a little bit true.”

“You’ll find someone. Maybe the perfect person is about to walk right through the door and into your chaotic life.”

“Alright, I’ll marry the next person that walks through the door,” she replies sarcastically. 

As if on cue, however, the door of The Hanged Man opens and a lanky man with extremely white hair enters. As he grows closer, they can see the pointed ears underneath the flat-ironed hair and the black beanie, and he has some  _ interesting _ tattoos. His eyes are a bright green, like the grass on Sundermount, and he dresses like Marian used when she was a teenager going through her ‘angsty’ phase. But he is striking, nevertheless, and Varric has to snap his friend out of her audacious trance. 

“Er, we’re closed,” says Varric as the elf reaches the bar. 

“So you’re not looking for bar staff?” he says, and his voice is  _ low _ . He can already see the effect it’s having on Hawke. 

“Oh, you’re here for the job! Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would actually apply.” Barkeep to a criminal hotspot was hardly what anyone would call glamorous and you certainly had to be able to handle yourself in a fight. Though the elf is lanky he does not seem to be lacking in strength so Varric has no doubts about that at least.

“You’re replacing Isabela?” Hawke asks, eyebrows raised with disapproval. But Rivaini had also walked out without a moment’s notice months ago. What could he do? He’s beginning to see where Hawke’s recent mood was coming from, not many seemed particularly loyal to either of them these days. 

“She’s off soul searching, Hawke. Who knows _ if _ she’s coming back, let alone  _ when _ . I need some help around here.”

Hawke nods, knowing he is right but still loathe to admit that the thief may indeed never return to Kirkwall. “Well, you won’t need to worry about staff when Dorian Pavus buys the place,” she jokes. 

“You are selling to Dorian Pavus?” says the elf, with a particular brand of venom in his words. The type that has a story behind it. “Forgive me, but I refuse to work for that  _ festering turd _ .” The elf looks away and squeezes his eyes shut and now Varric is just dying to know the context. 

“Don’t like Tevinters, I take it?” he says, lightheartedly, but the elf is practically boiling with rage at the very mention of the northern nation. 

“ _ No one likes Tevinters _ ,” he replies, through gritted teeth. 

“He’s not wrong,” Hawke chuckles, raising her glass to the sentiment. It’s true that she does spend a lot of time turning in members of the country to Aveline. But they can’t  _ all _ be bad. Can they? 

“Well anyway no, I’m not selling to Dorian and there’s hardly a queue forming so the jobs yours if you want it,” Varric assures him.

The elf’s mood seems to lift again once he hears that. “When can I start?”

“Now, if you’re free. I can show you the ropes. What’s your name, elf?”

“Fenris.” 

“Nice name,” says Hawke with a smile, the first time he’s seen her smile in a while actually, as she stares at the handsome elf. She is totally and utterly shameless around men. And women come to think of it.

He only looks back at her mildly perplexed and slightly uncomfortable as he fumbles for some kind of response. “I er...thank you.” 

“Are you single?” she asks, and yet again Varric has secondhand embarrassment for his friend’s bluntness. Which was likely part of the reason that she was so miserable in love, always going off physical attraction rather than getting to know a person first. 

“Why?” he asked, with the same confusion as before. 

“Just making polite conversation,” she says, leaning forward a little. “You have pretty eyes.”

“Don’t you have a Tevinter to spy on?” Varric interrupts before she can scare the poor elf any further.

“Do I?” 

“Hawke,” he warns and she takes the hint. 

“Spoilsport,” she says, taking Dorian’s business card from the bar and heading out the door. 

* * *

Dorian Pavus is not entirely what she expected. She anticipated a dreadful Magister. A menacing blood mage who is bound to go  _ mwhahahaha _ every five minutes, just so people knew how truly  _ evil  _ he is. She expected a large gothic mansion with five hundred layers of security and a pack of guard dogs waiting to tear any intruders limb from limb. She expected maybe a slave or two to peel grapes for him on the hour. But a quick google search shows him as a prominent businessman and a part-time model. His apartment, from what she can see of it from her position on the street below, looks fairly simple and, to her surprise, there is not a slave in sight. 

What does seem interesting, however, is the large qunari man who is currently undressing him and he clearly does not care a jot for privacy as the curtains have been left wide open for all to see. She snaps a few photos, just in case, but suspects that Mr Pavus will not be quite so easy to figure out after all. 

Suddenly, her phone rings from inside her pocket. She removes and places it between her cheek and shoulder as she continues to spy on Dorian through the camera lens. “Carver?” she asks, unused to hearing from her rogue brother for quite some time. He had joined the Grey Wardens and nowadays she was lucky to get a text once a month from him. He seemed happy though, happier than he had ever been here or anywhere that was in her vicinity. She had never known what she’d done to deserve his attitude but clearly, she was the worst sister in the world. She mostly felt sorry for Mother, who had essentially lost two out of three of her children. 

“Don’t sound too pleased to see me. Or hear me,” he replies, same sardonic attitude as ever.

“Sorry, I am, it’s just...are you okay? You never call.”

“No you’re right, it’s not just a social call.” He takes in a deep breath before proceeding. “Whatever mess you’ve gotten into recently...well it’s really coming back to bite you in the arse.” 

“What? What mess?” she asks. She gets herself into scrapes and confusions on a regular basis but she cannot think of anything off the top of her head. Not recently, anyway. Did she offend some noble simply by existing? Knowing Hightowners, that was certainly a possibility. 

“I don’t know exactly, but I was near the Kirkwall border and I overheard something. Someone is planning to kill you. I didn’t get a look at them but… Maker sister, what have you done? Are you incapable of not drawing attention to yourself?” 

“I honestly have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll ask Aveline if she knows anything. But thanks for the heads up brother.”

“It's alright, just...be careful. Keep Mother safe. I worry about her...and you. You’re a fool but I don’t want you to die.” 

“That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she says, pretending to cry over the phone, and if eye rolls were audible she would be able to hear him now.   


“Oh shut up! Just stay safe, idiot.” With that, she hangs up and packs up her camera, needing to address a much more pressing matter. 

* * *

Fenris sweeps the disgusting floor as Varric sits at the bar, scrunching up his face at the accounts and wondering why they’re in such a mess. Of course, because he let Isabela do them. He is in a bigger mess than he is truly admitting, not even to himself. He could barely keep this going, perhaps another month before Meredith turns him out onto the street. The Tevinter would certainly be the answer to his prayers, but he just cannot bring himself to sell this place. It’s not the walls or the furniture. It’s the  _ memories _ . The friends he has made. How can he just say goodbye to that? 

He switches his gaze to Fenris now, who was tackling the state of the floor. The elf had already proved useful and well accustomed to bar work so at least he now has someone to man the fort while he tries to save this place from slipping under. 

“That woman who was here earlier…?” Fenris says as he notices Varric staring at him, leaning on his broom with a puzzled look on his face like he’d been dying to ask this question for a while now.

Ah, but how does he explain Hawke to someone who is not accustomed to her bullshit? Her utter chaos? “Hawke? What about her?” he replies with a faint smile. 

“Who is she?”

“She’s a friend. A very old friend. We were in business together once but it...fell through. Now she’s a private detective and I own this place.”

“Is she...always like _ that _ ?”

He cannot help but chuckle. “She’s harmless, Broody. She flirts with everyone, it's just a joke. You’ll get used to it.”

“Broody?” he asks, surprised like he’s never been called that before. He must have been, he’s had the same singular facial expression since he arrived, Like a permanent look of wishing he was anywhere else.

“Oh yeah, if you’re working here then you have to have a nickname.” 

“I do not brood.”   


“Friend, if your brooding was any more impressive, women would swoon as you passed. They’d have broody babies in your honour.” 

“You’re a very odd dwarf,” he says.

“That’s…been said before,” he concedes. The elf does at least have some sort of odd sense of humour. Varric had a feeling that he was going to fit in well here. “Hold on, got a message.” 

* * *

“Aveline!” Hawke exclaims as she flounces into the guard captain’s office, without an appointment of course. 

The red-haired woman is hunched over her desk, palms either side of a piece of paper, as she stares at it intently. “What have you done now?” she says, without even looking up. 

“Why does everyone always assume I’ve done something? Why can I never just be here to say ‘hello’?” Hawke defends although she is not quite sure that she truly believes what she is saying herself. She only ever hassles Aveline like this when she is in some kind of trouble and the woman knows it. 

“Hello,” Aveline says monotone as she stands up straight and perches on the end of her desk.

“Hello,” Hawke replies and pauses as Aveline stares at her patronisingly with folded arms across her chest and raised eyebrows. “Alright fine, Carver said someone is trying to kill me.”

“Who?” she replies, unperturbed. 

“I don’t know, that’s the problem. Have you heard anything? Anyone acting suspiciously?”

“You’re asking me if someone is acting suspiciously in Kirkwall?” She chuckles and Hawke nods, remembering where it is that she lives. 

“Yeah okay, I just heard myself.” 

“There may be something. We’ve had reports of murders, a new one just this morning. All of the women are of a certain age. Could be to get to you?” She hands her the papers that she was previously staring holes into. 

“What are you trying to say about my age?” 

Aveline laughs and shakes her head. “Nothing. Worth a look though, the timing is convenient. We’ve been getting nowhere with this case for a while, your help would be greatly appreciated.”

Hawke ponders it, wondering if this is all true. Maybe Carver had misheard. She really cannot remember wronging someone so much that she deserved death! Or it could easily be Carver’s shit idea of a practical joke. But did she want to risk it? People in Kirkwall are pretty crazy, in fairness. “Lead the way,” she agrees and Aveline grabs her coat. 

The crime scene in Hightown is laden with inquisitive nobles trying to get a sneak peek at the horror that lies behind the ivy-covered doors. Inside the mansion, not too far from her own, a faceless woman lies face down with several missing limbs and other body parts. Blood magic, she concludes, mentally shivering at the thought. Why is it  _ always _ blood magic? 

“This person has targeted at least seven women now,” Aveline tells her as she bends down to examine the cordoned off body, attempting to refrain from being visibly disgusted by the sight of it. “All left in the exact same position. Missing limbs, very little blood, white lilies.”

“White lilies?”

“Yes, they are always given white lilies as a gift before they die. Have you received any?”

“No. No one buys me anything.” 

Aveline nods, not yet taking her eyes from the body. It was horrific to look at but also impossible to look away and Marian knows that she will be seeing this scene whenever she closes her eyes for quite some time. “Don’t suppose you have an estimate on your assassination time?”

“No, sadly my killer hasn’t given me a head start. It’s very rude of them,” says Hawke, earning an eye roll from Aveline, but that is nothing new. “I’d have received these lilies if I was to be the next victim by now though, wouldn’t I?” 

“I’m not sure, just keep an eye out. Now, would you help me interview some witnesses?”

“Aveline, you are aware that I’m not actually staff, right?”

The other woman gives her that ‘help me or I’ll kick your arse’ look and Marian is often too afraid to argue. “Please Hawke. Brennan has been ill for a long time, Donnic is on a course in Starkhaven. I’m exhausted trying to keep this ship running and Kirkwall has  _ a lot _ of crime, as you well know. We’re getting nowhere with these leads.” Hawke stares at her blankly. “Alright you arse, I’ll pay you,” she sighs, relenting and digging out her wallet from her pocket. 

“You really should have led with that Aveline. It would have saved us both some time.” 

She returns to The Hanged Man later that evening and immediately hears an almighty commotion going on inside. She pushes open the door cautiously and has to duck the second her feet meet the threshold as she is almost singed by a raging fireball.

“There she is!” a young female mage with mousey hair cries. She stands in the centre of the room, two desire demons by her side, as the customers are cowering behind the furniture. Marian scans the area and spots Varric behind the bar with his new elven employee. She takes in a deep breath before walking closer to the unhinged blood mage. “The woman who ruined my life,” she spits venom as Hawke stops about a metre away from her. 

“And I suppose you are the woman who is going to kill me?” she says, trying to remain calm even though her breathing is shallow and her hands are shaking. 

“It’s what you deserve,” the mage's stance is more guarded than offensive which suggests to Hawke that she is more scared of her.  _ What does she think I’m going to do to her?  _

“I don’t even know who you are!” Hawke replies with the honest truth. 

“That makes it even worse!” 

“Let’s talk in the back, yeah? Whatever I’ve done, it has nothing to do with these people,” Hawke suggests. The girl pauses and looks around at the frightened people who have been caught in this crossfire and finally nods, casting the demons away. They head through into Varric’s office and close the door behind them.

“You don’t even remember the pain you inflict,” the girl shouts immediately, her eyes filled with fire and a burning rage, but also with a hint of icy melancholy and blackening grief.

“What did I do to you that’s so bad you want to kill me?” 

“Remember Harren Valera?”

“The...yes. I remember.” Aveline had hired her, at least a year ago now, to track down a killer blood mage. She had sourced their location to Sundermount and then let the Templars take it from there. She saw them take Harren to the Gallows but she had no idea what they did to him once he was there. And she certainly had no idea that he had a family. In truth, she was simply tired of the job and wanted it finished but perhaps her lack of drive had come back to haunt her. 

“Well, I’m his daughter, Emilia,” she says with the anger faded away now to reminiscent sadness. “A year ago, you were chasing someone. Another apostate. A dangerous one. But you got the wrong man. You led the Templars straight to my father, where we were hiding, and they took him away from Mother and I. He was never dangerous! He just wanted to live a life with me and Mother. And then my magic manifested and I wanted to join him in there. But they made him...they made him  _ tranquil _ . They took away all his love for me! So I escaped so I could find and kill the woman who did this to him.” 

“I-I’m sorry.” These are the only words that she can muster. She had led the Templars to the wrong man and robbed him of his right to think and feel. Robbed this girl of a father. How could she criticise an apostate for trying to protect his family when that’s all her father had ever tried to do? And all that she was doing now. In another life, this could be her; demanding retribution from the selfish person who had ruined her life. 

“No you’re not,” she snaps back, that fire returning in abundance, unsatisfied with her lacklustre response. “You parade around Kirkwall like you own the place, doing what you like and not caring who gets caught in the crossfire. Well, that ends. Now.” 

“I’m sorry I got the wrong person and I’m sorry he got taken away but...I didn’t know they would make him tranquil,” she begs but Emilia is right. She frequently messes with people’s lives and often does not think about the consequences. Carver has always said so. She could not condemn this girl now. Not when she had caused all of this madness. 

“They blamed him for crimes he didn’t even commit! Because of you!”

“You’re right. I can make it up to you!”

“You can’t.” 

“Do you really want to kill me?”

She hesitates a moment, avoiding eye contact. “No,” she relents, under her breath. “But I have to.”

Hawke closes the gap between them and to her surprise, Emilia does not step away in fright. Perhaps she can see the remorse in Marian’s eyes, the utter shame that she feels in this moment. “Listen to me, once you taint your blood with taking someone’s life, there’s no going back,” she warns. “You either get desensitized to it or... you simply fall apart. You’re right to hate me and I don’t blame you for wanting to make me pay. But you do so at your own expense too.”

“If I don’t kill you, they’ll kill me.  _ You’ll _ kill me,” she whimpers, glancing down at the floor.

“No. You can run. I’ll tell Aveline it was a misunderstanding.”

She meets Hawke’s eyes now, a mixture of mistrust and a microscopic glimmer of hope. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because guilt is a powerful emotion? Because I’m not a complete monster? And…” she conjures a quick flame with her palm, enough to send the message. “I _ am _ you.”

Emilia’s ocean blue eyes grow wide with shock as the flames dance on Hawke’s palm, gently as if they are merely a thing of beauty and not a powerful weapon. “You’re…?” 

“A mage, yes. I don’t enjoy sending people to the circle either, only if they’re dangerous to others and themselves. Like I  _ thought _ your father was. Let me make amends. Run. Now. Make a life for you and your mother outside of Kirkwall.”

“But the people outside?” She looks towards the door and takes in several deep breaths.

“I’ll handle them. Go.” 

Emilia nods and opens the door apprehensively, unsure if those in The Hanged Man would be as forgiving as Hawke. As she steps outside, Hawke hears a familiar voice coming from the entrance.

“Surrender, mage!” says Aveline in a loud, commanding voice as Marian follows Emilia back into the bar. The red-haired woman, along with half a dozen men, is pointing a gun at the petrified girl.

“Aveline, no,” Hawke defends sternly. There is an eruption of muttering around her as the others must be immensely confused at the turn of events. But she made a promise and she intends to keep it.

“She tried to kill you,” Aveline states, brows knitted. 

“For good reason. It’s my fault, Aveline, let her go,” Hawke demands and Aveline’s gun lowers a fraction. 

“You would defend this maniac? Are you insane?”

“Quite possibly.” She shrugs and hopes that Aveline will trust her on this, though she knows that it is a lot to ask.

“You know I can’t do that Hawke. Whatever your reasons, she comes with me.”

“No!” Emilia screams in anguish, wailing like a despair demon and pulling out a dagger to strike her palm with. What happens next Hawke has seen a thousand times before and she knows by now that there is no way to stop it. A red mist overcomes Amelia as a multitude of demons manifests around her. Her once petite and delicate body now becomes a monstrous and mottled creature with nothing but hate to sustain it. Emilia is gone. An abomination now stands in her place. She was not strong enough to resist.  _ Because of Hawke. _

Aveline and her guards open fire at the creature, barely even flinching as they take down the beast. It puts up little resistance before flopping to the ground with an ugly thud. Now Marian understands that she wanted to die all along, but not without at least trying to avenge her father.

“It is done,” Aveline states as she places her gun back in its holster and Hawke feels a wave of guilt washing over her as thick ichor oozes from the hideous monster, unmoving on the ground, and the scared faces of the innocents caught in this mess stare back at her. 

She pours the whiskey down her throat like pouring water down a well. Anything to forget what she just saw and to suppress the culpability that will inevitably eat her alive. Aveline and her team had cleared the body away and asked the witnesses a few questions, beginning with her. Hawke told her all she could but the girl was dead. The case was closed. Except there was a niggling thought at the back of her mind that she kept coming back to. She had sent an innocent man to the Gallows so...the real killer could still be out there? He could even be the one who is killing these women now and she had failed to do her joke properly, thus putting many more lives at risk. Yet another thing to add to the growing pile of situations that she has mightily fucked up. 

“You truly are an enigma,” says a voice, its owner approaching her and joining her at the bar. She turns to see the white-haired elf with his own glass of wine and taking the stool beside her. She would never have taken him for a wine man, but then she has had less than one conversation with him. He is certainly handsome in an odd sort of way, no doubt about that, but something about him seems dangerous.  _ Exciting _ . She’d be lying if she said that she isn’t intrigued by the vibes he is giving off. But then, as Varric had said earlier, that had always been her downfall. Perhaps she should marry Sebastian the Chantry man and be done with it, though knowing Kirkwall it is possible that even he has a dark past and a closet chock full of skeletons. “A mage tries to kill you and you try to help them go on the run,” he says, an essence of judgement in his voice. A tone she was pretty used to. 

“It was all my fault,” she replies, taking an enormous gulp of whiskey. “Her father got made tranquil because of me. I had to do something.”

“If he was made tranquil he must have been seen as dangerous.”

“I caught the wrong guy.”

“The Templars may have seen something you did not. You cannot simply take the word of a deranged  _ mage _ .” The way he says ‘mage’, and ‘Tevinter’ earlier, suggests that he has got a past, as did his knuckles which were turning snowy white as he grips the glass neck tightly. 

“Why do you hate mages so much?” she questions, leaning on her elbows.

“It’s not mages, it's the power they wield and the way that they crave domination.” 

“Not all of them.” 

“Perhaps. But too many.” She cannot truly argue with that point, having just witnessed what was essentially the suicide of a blood mage whose sanity got up and walked out of the door a long time ago. It seems as though everyone is resorting to it these days to escape the Gallows. And not everyone can resist the powerful temptation of a demon. “So is it always like this with you? Murder? Secrets? Danger?” he asks, his tone a little lighter and less accusatory now which surprises her. 

“Only on Tuesdays,” she jokes and she swears she sees the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly, if only for a moment.

The door abruptly swings open with a bang and Dorian Pavus enters, face contorting at the sight of the bloodstains on the wooden floor and the pungent stench of it that she was only just about growing accustomed to. “What in the name of Andraste’s left buttcheek happened here?” he says as he swaggers over to them, pulling his scarf tightly around his nose and making sure not to touch anything.

“Hawke happened,” Fenris mutters, not making direct eye contact with the man and instead focuses on his drink. 

“Ah,” he says, and Marian is mildly offended that the statement required no further explanation. “Where is Varric?” he asks.

“Giving a statement,” she informs him. 

He nods and reaches inside his pocket to hand her another of his business cards.“Tell him...to reconsider my offer,” he orders and although she cannot see it, she can certainly picture his arrogant smile as he turns to leave. Just before he does so, he swivels back on his feet and faces her, holding up his index finger. “Oh and dear, one more thing. A word of advice if you will. You may want to turn the flash off your camera. It’s very distracting.” 


End file.
